Do ya like writing that seems like it could possibly be somehow profound but its really bullshit?

[insidious_dream]

the chrysalis is cracking only blood comes blood rushing blood through followed by vinegar and gasoline, mold spores and mud raining entropic elixir upon the hands of the botanical mechanics, fixer for the mixer's noxious saline caterpillars, devouring flowery abstractions without malice merely destroying things beautiful in search of sustinence. ignorant of its inertia, transmuting inert metalloids to dirt - an inverted perverted alchemist with paper slashed wrists. the Philosopher's Stone is made of bone and human excrement, the howling manticore hunts a more visceral sacrament. The carapace lays shattered rubble in the dusk worms begin their tireless duty eating away the husk. an empty useless sack of fetal insectoid lays on her back staring into the glistening shadow of the Condor's pinions. tar and soot, obsidian and ash crash forth from its open maw, molten hatred like liquid rancor on the paper of an invidiously penned law. with the eyes of a disease, the phantom avian's unnerving stare brings Narcissus to her knees. Orestes and Electra, Oedipus and Medea each a chamber of the brazen hearth beset within the innermost part of the gilded cage in the bird - lines drawn in turn out and the lout's eyes shorn out with hematite talons the buzzard's third smite of spite is a subtle execution of enlightenment. gouge out the one all seeing eye of mindful excogitation and vindication, leave the excommunicated carcass mutilated for fashion. the maggots come from underground and slowly start to gather round to serve their station The Death Head Vulture stretches wide his wings of velvet decay to shround his Intended from the loving touch of day - summoning his sentinels whom he has chosen in conception and awoken he ushers them into his coven. the hour of virility grows closer to the ebon hand clawing along the lines on the face of father time to release all seven chakras and inject the void into his spine, the abhorrent ghastly carrion feeder screams that the consummation is nigh as the tainted Father, the great abstraction, raises his sickle high. in a grating voice like granite gravel a cryptic cypher begins to travel through the infinitely open space of an endless tremulous moment in a torrent of explosive dissent.

"You shall grow old along with me, for the best is yet to be."

The failed experimental insect beneath the emphemeral witching tent briefly stirs and the empty shell of a skeletion begins to bubble like a boiling pot filled with creamy white slime of writhing maggots - they reel in astonishing pain as the scythe slew the vile vessel of umbilical dissolution, shorn midnight feathers in the wind rescind....

that's all ive written, because its bullshit.